


untouched goods

by thedevilbites



Category: Red Eye (2005)
Genre: Casual mentions of killing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Minor details deviate from canon, Post-Movie, Power Dynamics, Temptation, Unresolved Sexual Tension, implied pain kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27722497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilbites/pseuds/thedevilbites
Summary: “Well,” Jackson flips his bangs out of his eyes, and tells her plainly, “I want to kill you, Lise.”Her lips part carefully. “Oh.”
Relationships: Lisa Reisert/Jackson Rippner
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	untouched goods

**Author's Note:**

> i've been on a real 'one character hurts the other/one character asks the other character to hurt them' craze and it is definitely a major turn on 
> 
> no, i am not at all sorry
> 
> (oops author broadcasts their entire sexual desire to the whole world lol)

She quits her job, after.

No one expected her to stay, really, so she doesn’t. The process goes relatively smoothly. She doesn't even need to give her boss a two weeks notice, just walks into her office and told her she was going, and that she desperately needed some time off for...mental health purposes.

Her boss readily agrees, and wishes her well, eyes all earnest and teary like a begging golden retriever, clasping Lisa’s hand a little too tightly in between her own before waving her off.

And just like that, she’s out.

_She dreams of a fist in her hair, his fingers plucking messily at the base of her scalp. A contradictory, feather-light touch skimming the fragile wings of her collar bones, and the sour-sweet smell of his breath on her forehead—_

_She wakes at the sound of her alarm clock, then shoves a hand between her thighs and pinches her clit until she comes._

__

__

_Her moan is muffled by her pillow._

It’s almost like she’s waiting for something. 

“For what?” Her father asks wearily, voice crackling over the restaurant crowd, and Lisa pushes the receiver closer to her ear to hear him better.

“I don’t know,” Lisa admits, waving down a waiter for the check. Her starchy white table napkin lays neatly over the tops of her bare thighs, unwrinkled and untouched. 

“Well,” he begins, then his voice falls silent, and he starts anew. “It’s just—there are people you can see, you know that, right?”

“I know.” The answer is automatic, her voice curt and clipped like a dead-end. It’s not the first time her dad has brought this up. She sniffs, glances around the busy Thai restaurant, then bites absentmindedly at her nails. The petal pink polish is still chipped on her right index finger from when she peeled it off in the morning.

There’s silence on the other end. Her father’s worry is tangible, and a little sickening, too. She can feel him deliberating over the phone.

After a moment, she hears him sigh shakily, as if he’s given up. “Whatever makes you happy, darling,” he says, then politely excuses himself from the conversation, claiming something about another call on the line.

The waiter places the check in front of her right as her dad hangs up.

_She dreams of a cramped airplane bathroom, and secrets that should have been left dead and buried in their body heat._

_He traces the long, waxy scar seared into her flesh meticulously with his tongue, and she can’t help but moan, can’t help but buck against his hold because this,_ this _is what she was missing; how he reaches depths inside of her that she herself has never even explored—_

_She wakes to the startling, ascorbic taste of her own desire._

_Lisa shifts restlessly on her bed._

__

__

_She can still feel his tongue inside of her._

She has two glasses of Chardonnay when she gets home. It’s different from what she usually drinks, burns in the back of her throat a little on the way down. 

Lisa wrinkles her nose, places the wine glass down on the coffee table and watches how the light plays with the crystal, scatters delicate reddish-pink reflections over the stained wood. 

When she sits up to inspect the glass more carefully, she freezes mid-reach, fingertips just brushing the stem. Her neck tingles, not in the curious, pins-and-needles type of way, but something decidedly harsher. Warmer, maybe, too, like that feeling she got when she landed in New York for her aunt’s fiftieth birthday, the inescapable heat and humidity glistening off the sidewalk, the thick air settling in her throat like sticky tar. 

Her head feels fuzzy, and her lungs feel small and shriveled. As if she’s breathing through a straw. 

She looks up and around her living room frantically. Eyes roving, inspecting, _searching_ —nothing. Only the numb silence of her apartment, the dull buzz of street traffic from the crack in her window.

The tv remote feels heavy in her hand, but Lisa forces herself to turn the television on, and sit through three episodes of _Gilmore Girls._ She gets itchy halfway through the fourth one, jumps up and off of the couch as she rushes to the bathroom—

It’s empty, too. 

She slinks back to the living room, feeling oddly defeated, and pours herself another glass of wine.

_She dreams of him grabbing her by the neck, and licking the underside of her breasts until she cries._

_Then he bends her upright in a rough, shaky motion, and walks her backwards, crowds her until she’s practically leaning over the sticky airplane toilet, knees trembling._

_“What are you going to do now, Jackson?” She demands, catching her breath, while he stares at her, face impassive. The arches of her cheekbones are still stained with tears, but they feel dry and cracked. Like water droplets hissing on a hot stove._

_He stays silent, clearly not in the mood for games, so she drops all pretenses. She can’t help but stare at his neck, now smooth and unblemished, when she asks, “Are you going to fuck me, or kill me?”_

_At that, he smirks, the corners of his mouth pulling up slightly to give her a waxy smile._

_“What would you have me do?” His voice sounds different in her dream. Deeper. Hoarse. Almost like_ he’s _the one begging._

_Lisa stands up straighter, and splays her hands over his chest, effectively resigning herself to Jackson’s orbit. He’s not wearing a shirt, and his skin is hot beneath her fingers._

_“Fuck me,” she grins raucously, then digs her nails into his chest and steps even closer._

_He hums, and lets her kiss him, bringing a hand around her waist as she does so. It’s nice, until she remembers who she is, where she is, and who, exactly, is supporting her._

_They break apart abruptly, and Lisa sags into the sharpened crease of the wall, her bare, slightly-sweaty skin sticking to the plaster._

_“You still haven’t answered my question,” she pants into the space between them._

_“Haven’t I?”_

_“You really haven’t.”_

_“Well,” Jackson flips his bangs out of his eyes, and tells her plainly, “I want to kill you, Lise.”_

_Her lips part carefully. “Oh.”_

_He nods, and makes a noncommittal sound while she fidgets and looks around the cramped bathroom, as if she could find answers in the overused, grease-stained sink._

_Lisa pauses, watches Jackson watching her squirm, then throws an arm over her face and blurts, “Maybe you don’t have to kill me.”_

_Jackson’s shoe—stupid Italian leather—scrapes once against the linoleum floor, then the bathroom descends into quiet._

_“Lise—“_

_“Maybe—maybe you could just...” she blushes, still refusing to face him, “hurt me, a little, instead.”_

_“Hurt you?” His jaw clicks, voice raw and tight like he’s gargling cut glass._

_“Yes,” she whispers, slowly bringing her arm down to peek up at him. He’s leaning down to meet her, so close the tips of his bangs brush her forehead. She forces herself to swallow, a firm bob of her throat._

_“How do you want me to hurt you, Lise?” His teeth graze the crown of her head, sending shivers cascading down her spine, and her eyes flutter shut on instinct._

_“I—”_

_“Hm, Lise?” He drops to his knees before her, and she can feel how wet she is, the overpowering warmth between her thighs. She is the controller and the controlled._

_She lets her head fall back on her shoulders, moans lightly when he wraps his fingers around her ankles and spreads her legs open, gentle but firm._

_“Make me bleed,” she whispers, half-delirious with anticipation, body tight and clenched and decidedly wired. She can feel his breath on her cunt, steady and cool, and her muscles are coiled like a spring._

_Jackson presses the ridges of his teeth, smooth and cool and slippery, to her cunt, and she jerks in his grip, gasping bodaciously, the sound utterly, positively abrasive given the context—_

_“Whatever makes you happy, darling,” he grins up at her, and she gasps, wrestles in his grip, doesn’t have time to stop him before he_ bites down—

_She wakes with two fingers buried in her cunt, underwear discarded and soaked-through._

**Author's Note:**

> ;)
> 
> come say hi on tumblr! i'm @thedevilbites


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